Free In Real Life by Chris Killen Page B

afucking idiot and you are dehydrated and last night you did something incredibly stupid. You sat on the roof terrace of a hostel with a group of strangers and drank strange lagers and smoked some of an extremely strong joint that might have had something else in it too, and then you let a Norwegian boy fuck you .
    Did you use a condom at least?
    Lauren stuck her fingers between her legs, lifted them to her nose, and smelled the sharp tang of rubber and not washing.
    The five other bodies in the room – all men – were snoring softly in their bunks as she padded around the sticky, horrible-smelling room, collecting her things, fastening her bra, pulling up her jeans, and when she squatted to tie her shoelaces, her knees cracked so loudly it made her heart flip.
    Down in the lobby there were only a couple of sleepy, stoned backpackers sprawled on beanbags. The music was quieter too. It must be very early in the morning, she guessed, looking around for a clock and not finding one. The girl at the desk – a different girl from the one who checked her in, thank god – didn’t look up from her Sophie Kinsella paperback when Lauren left her room key on the counter, then turned and walked, as straight-backed as she could manage, the wheels of her suitcase catching and squeaking, as she went out of the door and down the glittery, sticky steps towards the street.
    *   *   *
    The man in the internet café let her leave her suitcase behind the counter.
    â€˜Just got here, eh?’ he asked, grinning, his face large and round and stubbly.
    Lauren nodded.
    â€˜Australian, right?’ he said, trying to catch her eye.
    â€˜English,’ she mumbled, wishing she was back in England, where no one talked to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.
    She was unable to look him directly in the eye as she placed a warm dollar coin in his palm then took the stub of paper from his other hand. She headed quickly towards the PCs, set out in two long rows at the back of the café, sat down and logged on, feeling a little queasy at how tacky and stiff and dirt-encrusted the keyboard was as she typed in the passcode. The tiredness was almost like mania now. It howled through her like wind in a tunnel.
    What are you doing?
    Why are you checking your emails?
    You need to find another hostel to sleep in. Or a hotel. A cool, dark hotel room. A bed with clean white sheets. Go on. You could check in for one night, just to get some sleep. And then stick to hostels after that. Emily isn’t here for another week yet. You could check into hotels, until just before she arrives, and no one would ever know about it .
    She opened Internet Explorer and typed ‘ www.hotmail.com ’ into the address bar. Her cutesy, Paul-related password made her cringe whenever she entered it, but she was too tired right now to change it.
    As she waited for her inbox to load, she listened to whatever music was playing on the radio in the café; a song she didn’t recognise, with soft, dreamy female vocals, and there was a warm, sweet smell of biscuits drifting in the air, too.
    Canada .
    You are in Canada now .
    Everything is going to be okay from now on, possibly, in Canada .
    Three new emails, her inbox interrupted.
    The first, the newest, was from Paul.
    â€˜Things we still really need to talk about’ read the subject line.
    Really? Lauren thought. Because as far as she was concerned, there was nothing left to discuss. It was over. It’d been over for weeks. Boo hoo. She opened the email, but couldn’t quite bring herself to read through it properly.
    She just let her eyes scan over it, immediately able to pick up the general tone: hurt, bitter, possibly drunk. There was tons of it, too. Angry paragraphs spilling down the page. She scrolled through them, feeling so tired, so completely drained, that she might burst into tears.
    She clicked delete.
    The next email was from her mum.
    â€˜Just a quick